Gemotions

He sat in the tiny plastic chair, watching his son, David, assemble a tower of blocks. A familiar figure approached, her smile kind. Ms. Peterson. He remembered her. She taught fourth grade when he was a student. The memory was a wound, fresh and sharp. He remembered the constant comparisons to his older brother, the feeling of never measuring up.

Now, she was looking at him, a quizzical expression on her face. "David's very bright," she said, her voice warm. "He reminds me of someone I used to know..."

The comment hung in the air, heavy with unspoken things. He couldn't meet her eyes. He felt a chill, a deep emptiness.

He forced a smile, but the words felt hollow on his tongue. He had failed his brother. Now, he felt he had failed his son too.